Meeting A Maniac and A Genius
by VikMik222
Summary: *Warning* A completley different story to how the great Sherlock Holmes met his Doctor Watson...
1. Accompanied by a Piano and Violin

**Note:** This was a challenge set to me by another of my friends. The rules; it must be the Sherlock Holmes 2010 movie universe where Sherlock and Watson first meet. It can be exactly canon or it can be completely factitious. So I took the later and decided to completely remake it. It could either go very well or very badly! I hope my efforts go well and so I hope everyone enjoys the first chapter of a story- remastered. (And I would like to apologize now if I have ruined it completely!)

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**(An entry from Dr Watson's personal Journal)**

**Chapter 1; Piano Accompanied by a Violin**

For once in my life, I cannot remember the last time I wished to write in my journal with the greatest of need nor want. Perhaps it is this feeling that I shall not have time to recall such a range of events- I am lacking! But it seems my Journal entries will grow shorter in these new found depths of excitement, all thanks to a change of events even the gypsies could not comprehend. And so, with what time I have this evening, I will recall the meeting with a man who would change my life.

It was the closing night of the German orchestra which was visiting London's most proudly owned theatres. Merely a week or so ago if I recall correctly... A Thursday evening to be precise... Never was the evening full of life… but would end with a fatality far more real than provided in the entertainment. That was the first night I was called from the 'Swan's Crown' inn.

It was three months since I left Afghanistan, fighting with my fellow friends for the King's honour. I was sent back to London after facing a terrible injury to my left shoulder. The injury was so critical that I had no choice in the matter. Even though I was happy to return to the bustling streets of my fair country, I was saddened that I was not yet prepared for the sudden return. With little money and little plans for my future, I returned and rented a room at a inn, deep within the ports of the Thames. Luckily, my dear old friend Peter's gave me some wonderful news- Scotland Yard was in need of recruits for coroners for their investigations. So I was referred to a Detective 'Lestrade'. A rather straight forward gentleman who wasn't afraid to show his suspects the occasional rough manhandling. Lestrade was a man who was tough; he lived from the rougher side of my fair country. When I first met the short, stout fellow I almost mistook him for a fighter who could be found in the local sultry boxing rings, hidden in the local public house. As soon as I gave him my history, both military and medical, he took me on immediately. Apparently he was fond of men who knew how to look after themselves and he was right. I preferred (and still do) to carry around my revolver and swordstick, both treasures and memories.

I digress- I wish to note down everything- It was late, the orchestra had begun their evening party with drinks behind the stage. All in celebration of their superb show of course. However, on the very stage they performed… a young woman was left dead. She was a ballet dancer, a small performer who danced in one of the Orchestra's songs. I was called by a panicked police man who was on the 'beat' that evening. One of the violinists got the man to send a telegram to Scotland Yard and apparently Lestrade told them to call me since I was closest and I could look at the body to gain a good understanding before they would arrive.

When I got to the theatre, there was panic. The orchestra, knowing very little English, were in the rooms the theatre owners had prepared for them. Their manager was the only one who spoke any English. He was snide, immediately I did not like him from the scrawny eyes, messy black and thick beard and sleek hair- sleeked back. He was tall and thick, my first ideas were of a frightening black bear. I immediately introduced myself in order not to cause any trouble or confusion.

"Doctor John Watson- I am with Scotland yard. A police officer told me there was an injured girl here?" I was never so glad to have my cane. I was using it mostly every day, since I left Afghanistan I had a persistent limp and a slight feeling of anxiety by myself.

"She is this way." His English was good but his German accent was very thick. "It is big tragedy. She was a good performer- very friendly with the other people and our Orchestra." The man spoke, leading the way through the grand hallways. "My name is Gilbert Hermanski. It is a shame that such a thing would happen on the first night here. No one knows what has happened. Me and my friends were drinking at the back of the stage. No one had heard anything."

We continued to pass through the large hallways, beautifully decorated by hand crafted posters and wondrous architectural beauty.

Eventually Mr Hermanski led me to the grand stage- right there. It was a grand sight which could take anyone's breath away. It was though I was walking out onto a stage of my own. Little did I know this was merely the prologue.

"Over here." Gilbert spoke to me, waving a large and hairy hand towards a wooden stage, decorated with blood red curtains. It was difficult to spot her while I was standing before the stage, since it was elevated. As soon as I began to climb the stairs onto the actual dramatic veranda was when I saw her…

Three times- she had been shot three times. I showed no recoil or fear, I could see it in Gilbert's face he was shocked with my reaction. Little did he know I had seen far more traumatic things… Instead, I continued to walk towards her. She looked like a very admirable thing, only eighteen and looked as pretty as a tin doll dancer. Beautiful, was another word I was thinking. There, she had a bullet wound in her head, a wound in her shoulder and another in her left knee.

"Thank you. A detective will be coming any minute. Perhaps you should gather your orchestra and await for word from them. I'm sure the young police officer at the entrance will be sufficient to wait with me while I look over her. Did she have a name?"

"Maria. I do not know her second name." With that, he merely walked off. Luckily, a police officer was right there. I wasn't sure if having a single police officer would make me feel better- the stage was huge and the actual performance area was almost the size of barn. It was worrying yet I no longer worried too much. This was the first work I had done since the war and I would not throw away the only career I had to build my dreams.

As soon as Gilbert left, I felt as though I was the only one on that stage… I looked out towards the seats where the audience would be perched- it was difficult to see anything with the lights continuing to blind me from above. The heat was not only blinding, but stifling; I could barely see the police officer at the entrance.

I took a small breath and turned to Maria. It didn't look as though the poor thing had been gone long. Her cheeks still rosy, her skin barely warm to the touch. It was obvious that she had died with the single shot to the head- But as I kneeled there, watching, it became apparent that she had made a struggle. The shooter was precise- looking as though they had made her suffer before she fell. Once I took a small look around, I saw blood drops, something I was sure the police would be interested to see.

As I worked, my paranoia (or what I thought to be my paranoia) seemed to capture my interests far more then Maria's predicament. I heard things, small shuffled and scuffles. Of course I brushed them from my mind and eventually got back to my feet in order to record my notes in my small leather notebook I keep in my right hand breast pocket of my jacket.

Another sound echoed now from the seats- I looked up and saw nothing. I took a small and weary look towards the doors and saw the dark silhouette of the policeman and felt with some confidence I was safe enough to walk from the body. It felt as though Lestrade and his men were taking far too long to get her. So I decided to take a small moment to 'look' around the stage myself.

There was blood drops, like I noted before, and nothing else I could see off hand. But what took my curiosity was a piano, not yet wheeled away for storage. It was a grand piano. Beautiful, large and strong… Standing alone on the wooden pedestal.

I approached it and found the panel covering the ivory teeth had not been placed down. Already my finger's twitched like a curious child. The white teeth glimmered in the light; they seemed to shine with temptation. Personally I only knew a few bars of a song and already my fingers were stroking the white, pristine surface. I took a small glance over my shoulder to the woman lying there and couldn't help but wonder what beautiful dances she could have performed to this piano.

I pressed a single note and it echoed across the hall. I pressed another and soon enough, I played a small tune I remembered from my army days… it was simple, beginning to end. A small tune I played three times-

And on the third time I began the tune I was accompanied by a violin. I stopped as soon as I heard it's shrill tone. For a moment I thought I was hearing things- this wasn't my own imagination, I promise. I called out and I had no return, not even from the police officer and once again I only saw his shadow.

My heart was beating thick and fast in my chest. It felt as though I was suddenly surrounded by spectres. But curiosity once again caught me off by surprise. I played again… and as soon as I played the violin began to play once again. I wasn't sure what to do! This mysterious sound- I thought it was one of the orchestra violinists yet little did I realise was the person behind that violin was also a genius in so many ways.

I played only three more times until coming to a stop. I then realised how loud the violin was playing and turned… only to see a dark figure standing merely a few feet away from me. I thought I had startled him as soon as I saw the scruffy and dark features. I was not able to see him at first but as soon as I laid my eyes on him- he suddenly ran at me! A violin was in one hand while he raised the other. I went to defend myself but only found him running straight past me and striking a uniformed officer with the musical instrument! Little did I realise the officer had a gun and was pointing it right at me! All I could do was watch in a slight terror as some man dressed as a musician was attacking a police officer… with a violin!

A single gun-shot was fired and I found myself tumbling backwards- not because of being possibly shot but because this stranger pushed me out of the way! Never will I forget that sight… or feeling of adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Before either of us could get up, the policeman was already out of the door to me… flat out on a stage… with some scruffy maniac violinist on me!

"Awfully sorry about that." Came a small cough from above me. Now I had a better chance at looking at this man. Slowly he began to peel himself away- he wore glasses and had shoulder length, grey hair and a large- no… he wore a fake, large nose and had dark brown eyes. "I had to stop him before he blew your brains over this crime-scene… Would have been terribly messy."

I sat there, utterly confused as I stared at this… half-wit. He stood and looked back at me with the same confusion, almost looking a little distraught as I tried to speak. Instead, I just blatantly pointed at his nose. Once he realised what I was pointing at, he touched, what appeared to be, the plastic make up.

"Oh my… If you would excuse me- I have a nose to fix and a fake copper to catch- forgive me for this."

Before I could even chase after this strange fellow- he leapt for the backstage and grabbed one of the many levers, unbeknownst to me was which lever he was about to pull. "Wait! I have some questions for you!" I snapped, about to leap for this stranger but found myself falling into the darkness of a trap door…

When I opened my eyes next- was when I peered upwards through the open door. I had landed in some crates full of old and worn costumes (to my great luck). There, standing above me were a few police officers and Lestrade, all looking with both confusion and slight worry.

"What the bloody hell are you doing down there?" The inspector called, waving a hand to one of the incompetent officers to help me up. After a good five minute struggle to get me out of the dusty darkness, I found myself surrounded.

"Well- I was taking a nap… I was attacked! By some strange man in a fake nose and one of your officers!" I barked, clearly agitated by my experience. But as soon as I told Lestrade of my evening, he turned slightly pale.

"Did you say fake nose?" He asked, clearly disturbed by this thought.

"Yes! … Why… do you know anything of this?"

"I might know the fellow…"

"Who was it then?" By this time I had become tired, agitated and worried. I was certainly in no mood for any more tom foolery. Lestrade merely cleared his throat and looked to his right hand man; Clarkson aka Clarkey.

"You'll find out tomorrow morning with Clarkson here… for now, tell us what you know of the body and you will be paid and sent back to the inn with a police officer. Tell us everything and then you will get your answers tomorrow."

I sighed, patting the dust from myself and eventually nodded. Little did I know of what was coming my way… With clearing of my throat, I handed them my note book, looking at them wearily.

"I bloody hope so…"


	2. Unveiling of a New Journey

**Note:** I'm sorry the second chapter has taken so long to arrive. It's been a touch challenge this and there will be more to come!

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Never had I been so- excited since my return to England. I had been hungry, nay, starving for the old thrill of which I had become accustomed to from my days behind fire. It was an illness I had yet to conquer but it was a secret addiction I had yet to fight. Maybe it was due to the war's icy grip that I had not eased myself into normal life. Of course in a way I had been able to return to normal life however deep down I have held many of my own dark demons which even to this day is difficult to confront them. For now there was little time to consider my own needs, it was time now to consider how to discover the outcome of this horrid case but to also discover the assailant who not only saved my life but endangered it by dropping me down a trap door.

That morning I had a rather unappetising cold breakfast and was picked up not long after by a police carriage (which didn't give a fantastic impression with the inn keepers who weren't overly keen on me in the first place.) After a long and shaky ride, I found myself once more in the heart of London. The streets were thick with people, the sound of market goers shouting, the news sellers shouting even louder to pass on the gruesome news of the poor girl who had been cruelly shot on the theatre stage merely the night before. It was a horrid thought back then that such news would be screamed so loud in the crowds just to earn a living. It was true though... The need for money pushing the boundaries on common courtesy and kindness over a poor girl's murder. None-the-less, it came in handy when need be.

Eventually, I and a police officer by the name of 'Clarkson' (aka Clarky), arrived at a quaint but busy road. On one side there was a collection of shops, rather surreal little places which anyone could find anything their heart desires. It was a rather nice but busy. A rumbling little street of business and life. Almost poetic now that I think about it. Sadly I wasn't there for the sightseeing, nor in the mood to. No, I had a much larger event on my hands. London would always be there to see in greater depths. But at that moment I was about to witness one of London's greatest attributes.

Clarky was quick to get out of the car, removing his hat and tucking it beneath his arm and escorted me to the black door up four white steps. He knocked once- there was nothing- he knocked a second time and a dear old woman opened it for us. She had light golden hair with the kindest of smiles. For a woman of her age I was to be surprised of her role of keeper of the house. Everything about her spilled a rare warmth of welcome I had yet to know of Mrs Hudson. Everything she did she did with grace but with dignity.

"Yes?" She asked, her voice firm but kind. "Oh, Clarky, how wonderful to see you again."

"Thank you madam. We are here to see Mr Holmes. May we seem him?" The police officer announced, giving Mrs Hudson a kind smile, obviously they had met on many occasions. It was rather pleasant to see such friendly welcomes.

With an almost half-hearted sigh, the house keeper nodded and turned to lead us up a large pair of stairs to the rooms above. "You are lucky, he has only just returned from a three day excursion to god knows where." She commented, taking surprising long strides up the stairs. Every step proving to almost be a stamp into the carpet. A little louder than it should. It soon became apparent that Mrs Hudson was making an early introduction- to warn this 'Mr Holmes' that company was arriving.

As soon as we came to the top of the stairs, we came to a large black door to the right. It was big and looked worn. It had scratches and marks- though it did appear that there had been a fresh coat of paint it appeared that this was not needed since new marks had been made.

Mrs Hudson knocked once, waiting for a reply. Then there was a second. Still nothing… After a third knock, Mrs Hudson opened the door anyway, leaving Clarky to wander in first with me following.

I am not even sure to this day what I was expecting. Instead I found myself in a room- a room of pure chaos. There was a strong and distinctive smell of metallic essence in the air, soon followed by the pungent aroma of decaying food. There was barely any light- even if the curtains were drawn it appeared the windows had yet been cleaned- for quite some time… There was barely anywhere to move, especially with the amount of clutter (including stacks of paper, a collection of vials and experiments).

The very atmosphere was… muggy. Not dirty, in some strange way it looked like a mess but everything was in some strange order that to the naked eye would think of it as sheer chaos. It was just… strange. There was also the smell of tobacco in the air and it looked almost foggy. I couldn't help but to think I had walked into a poppi den.

Little did I know the occupant acted just like one of the rather troublesome establishments occupants…

A small screech came from a abused violin from the corner. A gentleman sat there, feet on a window sill and pipe placed neatly in his lips. He didn't notice us at first. Mrs Hudson had to be the one to break the silence.

"Mr Holmes…" She muttered, trying to break the awkward atmosphere lingering between us three and the man sitting in the corner. There was no reply. "Mr Holmes, you have company." She said a little more sternly.

Once again there was no silence before the man eventually dropped the violin, the door instrument landing with a thud while the bow string was still dangling between the thumb and forefinger.

"I heard you the first time _nanny_." Came the voice in a low and teasing droll. With a deep and almost strained sigh, the man slipped onto his feet and turned on his heels, revealing a rather scruffy looking man in his thirties with deep brown eyes. His face was rather regal, rugged with the lack of a shave but an almost charm which could sweep a woman off her feet and the slyness of a weasel.

He wasn't tall either. In fact he was rather short for a man of the current time. Yet with his baggy dress sense and limp shirt I wasn't able to see the real power and cunning lurking beneath his dress sense.

Once Mr Holmes had faced us, those sharp brown eyes looked at 'Clarky' with a familiar glee but as soon as he turned to me, both he and I immediately realised something. I was in shock- it was strange but I was quick to recognise the perk lips and the hawk-like gaze. It was him. The man who saved me… then sent be down a trap door.

The man was quick to approach, an almost cocky but bright smile growing quick on his lips. "Dr Watson! What a pleasure it is to finally meet you on more comfortable terms. I-"

Before he could finish his sentence I finished it for him…. By reeling back my arm and punching him square between the eyes… I was still rather sore about the other evening.

The room didn't seem very shocked. Mrs Hudson merely gasped and Clarkson blinked and held his hands firmly behind his back. I cracked my knuckles after, merely returning the feeling of relief. I felt good. Really good.

Holmes on the other hand- well he started to laugh! Even if his real nose was finally bent out of shape slightly, it seemed the act actually amused him!

"Well, I did deserve that. I'm sorry I had to run out on you like that my dear fellow. You didn't deserve it but I was merely protecting you."

"From what? Angry stage hands?" I spat angrily, my early frustrations still lingering on my nerve.

"From a mad man looking to clear up loose ends." The man explained, removing a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing his sore nose. "You wouldn't understand. A little bit too complex from a mere former medical soldier as yourself."

I stared in utter shock as he made the point without any input to my personal details. It took me a second to just stand there and think. I grasped the walking stick in my hand and looked to Clarkly confusingly. The man just shrugged his shoulders at me as though this was a common occurrence.

"How did you…?"

"It didn't take a lot my dear fellow. I knew most of the details but your 'warm welcome' seemed to confirm my suspicions."

"Did you speak to detective Lestrade?"

The man threw his head back and laughed. "That man can barely remember his own officer's names let along your personal back story my dear fellow! I admire the man for his efforts in justice but his brain function doesn't seem to challenge even a mere pigeon's intellect." He explained fondly of the Scotland-yard detective. "But no. It didn't take long to figure out much about you from your clothes, your limp and your cane. You're an open book just ready to be studied. And I must say doctor~ I'm already very interested in your story."

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or worried… it seemed this man was quick to put ideas together and made so many assumptions about my life. "Then how?"

"The stitching on your cuff follows that of a medical following from your profession and I could tell you were of military pursuit from your cane- it may look the admirable object but hides a deadly sword which the last battalion of Afghanistan soldiers were rewarded with on returns to England. Why they returned to England I am slightly fuzzy on. It appears there is a leg injury however there is something else. A leg injury would need to lead to complete dismemberment… however I still see your leg is fully intact."

"I was shot…" I plainly explained. "In the shoulder. Straight through one end and out the other. I was sent home in fear I would lose it…. I am only thankful I still have it."

Sherlock smirked and got to his feet once more. "Then you certainly do have substantial knowledge and skill my dear fellow. Your talents of observation the other evening was quiet amusing. However I must ask you to leave this investigation. There is too much to lose. Lestrade was a fool for putting on you on such a case full of spider webs leading to death. Stop this now Doctor and you will come out of this unscathed."

I was surprised to even hear the man say this! I wasn't one to give up- many times in my past of military work, my fellow soldiers told me I was too stubborn for my own good. With a frown, I shook my head.

"I can't. I simply can't see a young girl lay dead and just leave it. I was asked to be put on this case and I would like to see it through. As you see I am not married nor do I have anyone to worry of me. I have nothing to lose but my pride."

"And you wish this so much?" The detective asked, approaching me quickly until we were almost nose-to-nose. Even though it was less intimidating since he was slightly shorter than me… "Are you WILLING to put your very life on the line?"

At first I wasn't sure what to say… Uncertain of how to react. Yet it looked as though the other was studying me. This was a test.

"Yes. I want to do this case with every fibre of my being."

Sherlock continued to stare at me for another ten seconds until it seemed the brightness of the world had flooded onto his face. He clapped his hands together and grinned brightly. "Wonderful! Clarky! Get the good doctor's things from that terrible inn he's at and bring them here. Doctor Watson keep your cane on you and prepare yourself!" Holmes spoke briskly, grasping his coat and hat while Mrs Hudson, Clarky and myself watched in utter shock.

"What? Where!?"

"To the very darkest parts of London of course!" The detective continued, strutting out of the door with myself following. "Mrs Hudson, do not bother with dinner. We have a case to solve!"

With that we were already in a cab- on our way to the depths of the criminal world…

After fifteen minutes of turning curves and lingering in dingy streets, we arrived at a dark building not far from the theatre. At first glance it appeared to be a normal home with two beautiful mansions either side. It even looked as though no one was there… until up close, it became apparent the windows had been painted black. Small slithers of light tried to escape through what gaps were left by shady workmanship.

Already I was beginning to worry.

"Where are we?" I asked quietly.

"A very private and very prestigious club. It's rather shady and I hope you're prepared to see some rather unusual sights. In this profession you do see some disturbing sights."

"I think I have seen my share to be rather immune to such a thing. "

"Oh…" Sherlock smirked, approaching the door. "You still have much, MUCH more too see." The man smirked, raising his hand and knocking the door.


	3. The Peculiar Particulars

**Note: **Apologies for taking so long for the third installment, I'm afraid my ideas came to a halt. I hope you all enjoy!

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How wrong could I have been.

I had yet to see what society could concoct in its miserable and money-filled underworld.

I watched on bated breath as the large, thick, black door shivered and a secret little slide-away spy-hole produced a sight of two grubby eyes. The beast behind it snorted and narrowed the beady holes. "What ya want?" The thick and un-educated voice demanded.

To any poor bystander who was yet to come across this strange house would of surely been deterred by the hostile welcome. Though my companion… he appeared un-wavered and merely snuffed himself. He straightened his appearance and cocked his head up.

"I would like a whisky on three rocks while the Queen sings to the high heavens!" Sherlock stated. I must of gave him quiet a look because he returned a rather amused gaze back in my direction. Before I could even dare ask of this strange response… the door opened.

Behind the door stood a husky, bald man who merely waved his hand towards a dreary hallway.

"Thank you Baldwick." Sherlock smirked as he sauntered straight into the murky depths. As I followed, the man merely snarled at me, looking as though he was about to strike. Though before even our paths could cross, Holmes stood in my way and nodded. "He's with me. Now be a good monkey and keep the riff-raff out. We need to keep such a classy club on top now don't we?"

The man replied with a distasteful grunt and returned to his place.

Though I was glad not to find myself beaten, I did feel a slight feeling of offence as Sherlock offered a rather mischievous grin…. Which didn't fill me with confidence.

"Baldwick?" I questioned, staying close to the other as legally possible. "You have been here before?"

"I get around." He replied, continuing to slip through the murky corridors. It looked as though we were going through the belly of a beast… the smell of must was thick, almost chocking while smoke wisped through the cracks of doors and mutters of drunkenness, intimacy and laughter also filled the senses with every step.

Maybe this was how the rich but deprived did when they were bored.

Though soon, we approached double doors, Sherlock took the lead and pushed them open- there, before my eyes was a grand hall! From the outside of the house, it looked like a common dwelling in the high streets of London- but inside as a completely different world. At first I considered the hallway the entirety of the house in length though I was sorely wrong. It seemed but more was hidden behind each door.

Around me was the sound of music while the smell of the most sweetest liquor was tickling my nose, opium pipes were dotted across the room. On one side of the room were card tables, on the other side a bar. It seemed everyone was rather friendly: some men had women draped over their laps, women had men surrounding them, women were enjoying each other's companies and it seemed some men were more than happy to enjoy one anothers companies… closer than mere meetings might I add.

I fear Scotland Yard would have plenty of work on their hands if they dived into such a world. Though from the looks of the attendees, some of them could own Scotland yard.

"Welcome to the '_Peculiar Particulars_' club." Holmes announced.

Already I could understand why it was named as such… Though the term _peculiar _certainly fitted Holmes. Very, very well.

"Please, feel free not to ask any questions- keep your hands to yourself and do mind getting too close to the rest of the patrons- both the staff and the attendants do have wandering hands… Either for your money or anything else in reach. I do mean anything… So- have fun!" Before I knew it, I was almost running as fast as I could to keep up with him! He was like a snake slithering through the insects of the unwanted!

And I must say now… I understood why he meant by keeping close… I did have the odd moment when I was tittering from side to side to avoid the next grope… and yes, I did have wandering hands in areas I didn't particularly feel comfortable with.

Though, with a great feel of relief, I was standing at a small set of stairs with Sherlock already half way up them.

"Come on man, you're taking your time." He spoke cockily, stalking up the stairs like a prowling cat. "We're almost there."

With hesitation lingering in every step, I followed my way after him. I was cautious, I was also curious… What was there to see? What was there waiting for us in this strange, run down home? It felt as though I was pushing my way through the seven layers of hell- the further I went the more I saw.

After climbing the set of stairs, Holmes and I came to a cut off area of the larger room. It was cut off with a silk tie and guarded by yet another man, almost similar to the door from earlier. It seemed that the brutish monkey was also easily swayed by Holmes' appearance and gave us permission to pass. From there, I stepped into the box of Gods.

Already I was able to pick up some of London's most famous- politicians, journalists and even through quick glimpses.. I would of dared to say royalty. But with a nervous glance, I merely carried on and followed the consulting detective into a corner where a large, round table was filled with beautiful women happily keeping three gentlemen busy.

Two of the men didn't appear to be of great recognition but the third… He had a scar, very faint on his bottom lip, his eyes were sullen and appeared to have sunk into his head slightly while his oak hair seemed to be strained with grey slithers along the parting. Something about that man was very familiar. Even the smell of the tobacco he smoked was familiar.

None of them battered an eyelid as he approached.

Though Sherlock made sure they knew our presence as soon as he tossed a small pistol onto the table… Immediately I recognised it was _my_ pistol…

The two looked up, but the third did not, continuing to merely talk to the women- talking to them about some sort of Opera- I didn't capture the title.

"Good evening gentleman." Sherlock began, sinking his hands into his pockets. "My companion and I are here for some questions. If you could be so kind, I would like you to kindly hand over the answers without little fuss." The two men merely eyed us, a fierce look of annoyance burning in their eyes. "To begin with- I want to know why you killed a young girl named Maria Marieti' and who told you to do so."

Both men had fully become irritated by this stage and yet they did not move. They merely shooed the women off, leaving all three without company. The third man with the scar finally began to pay attention but did not look either of us in the eye.

"… Fine, how about this. Who was the _real _target of the shooting?"

I was unsure of what or why Holmes was asking such questions, though it seemed it certainly tapped a nerve as both men rose to their feet. Still, the third not saying nor doing much. Sherlock, on the other hand, still didn't look too bothered. Instead, a playful smirk appeared on his face… A smirk that lead me into quiet the trouble…

"Fine… Let's make a wager- if you can beat my companion at a round of cards then I will leave you all alone and leave you with this." Sherlock removed a large sum of notes from his breast pocket, quiet the amount that no man would be arrogant enough to put down. I looked at him cautiously. "If we win, you must tell us all you know. Do we have a deal?"

Both of the men looked at me, almost looking to see whether or not I was worth the challenge. After looking at one another, they eventually agreed.

And so I was pulled into a rather long game of cards- but won.

I was pleased- it seemed my habit of gambling certainly paid off. It is a sad addiction and sometimes dangerous but it was something I developed during my time abroad so I cannot really say much about it. I am only glad it was able to help this situation.

After three games, both men were unable to continue, their pockets empty and their minds fuzzy in depression and drink.

Sherlock leaned forward, grasping one of the suspects by the collar and stared hatefully into his eyes. "Now… tell us who hired you… and who were you trying to kill." He muttered almost darkly. One man plucked out a piece of paper and quickly slid it across the table, past the cards and under my hand.

The other man gulped hesitantly and began to mutter something beneath his breath. Since he was closer to Holmes, my companion was able to hear what he was saying while I could barely pick up in the inaudible mutterings of the pathetic excuse of a human being.

Sadly- our luck had ran out… Two gun shots were made, both quick and with precision… Both men slumped against the table… dead. Shot in the back.

Both I and Holmes were in utter shock. As Sherlock got to his feet to stop the assailant we were suddenly jumped upon by bouncers and angry customers.

With angry hands, and a few unneeded shoves, we were both kicked out of the house and onto the cold London street flat on our faces!

The cold air was particularly bitter at the ungodly hour.

"What… in God's name… just happened?" I groaned, rolling onto my back. I rubbed my side after feeling a spiteful jab as we had been lead out of the facility merely seconds ago. I gained a bruised rib cage that night…

Sherlock, slowly getting to his feet, brushed off his trousers and waist coat and merely removed the pipe from his breast pocket. He glanced to me and offered me a hand so I could get to my feet. Once steady, he placed his hand in my pocket and removed the letter I had been given.

He smiled at me triumphantly and held out the letter. Once I took it, he slowly walked out onto the empty street, waving down a horse and carriage. As he climbed in, he looked in my direction and grinned.

"What happened was our first break in this case." The man smirked.

I climbed in beside him, now tired and aching.

"Break? The only break is the possible broken rib I may have sustained… What did that man say to you?" I asked, glancing down at the piece of paper in my hand.

"A name."

"What name?" I asked, raising a brow.

Sherlock lit his pipe and took a long and needed breath. As he exhaled, his lips curled into a cat-like grin. "Professor Moriarty."


End file.
